


Oh so surreal.

by Deducingsocks



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Horror, Other, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-19
Updated: 2011-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deducingsocks/pseuds/Deducingsocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson's curiosity of room 221C's history gets the better of him and it ends somewhat unexpectedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I wish I didn't know.

It had all began when Watson's boyish curiosity got the better of him. 221C had been a mystery to the two men for some time, the topic of conversation often swayed in its general direction and, although Holmes was no more bothered about it than his own outward appearance, Watson was jittery with the promise of discovery. 

It was in March, when the cold winter began to disappear, that Watson plucked up the courage to question their landlady about the abandoned flat above. She warned him of the damp and the possible danger of fallen beam and went on to spin a yarn about how the flat was apparently haunted.

"Each curious young man or woman who has entered as never come out the same. They either die of some mysterious yellow fever or they end up in Bedlim.” She shook her finger warningly at the doctor, “Stay out, you hear?” 

"Mrs Hudson, I assure you I only wish to investigate for my own piece of mind.” 

"Doctor, I will not have your life on my head.” 

"Look at all the mad things myself and Mr Holmes get up to and I haven't died yet! I wish to see what 20 years of neglect has done to it and perhaps take it upon myself to fix it up. That is all.” 

"Would it matter if I said no?”

"No, not overly. Holmes can pick locks.” 

"On your own head be it.” 

Unable to contain his excitement for the new found adventure, Watson took the key and strode straight up to 221C. The door opened with an eerie creak of the hinges and he made a mental note to oil them. The flat itself was not as bad as it was first described, in fact. The root of the problem seemed to be a broken beam in the centre of the room; the source of the damp was rain water getting in through the cracks in the plaster. What made the flat appear haunted was quite obviously the complete lack of any life or any sign of tenants. There was a strange cracking within the walls and the sound of the droplets as they hit the floor echoed; this was all accompanied by the whistling of the wind through the tiles on the roof and the broken window.

Watson continued his investigation by studying the walls and floorboards. He had watched Holmes deduce so many things from the state of a room and he felt it was time to put his observations to good use. So, he ran his fingers along the brick of the walls and they came away covered in a wet, slimy substance he assumed was water. The wood on the floor was in dire need of uprooting; pieces easily came away in his hands and they too were covered in a film of water. However, beneath the window there were several illegible scratches. Whether they were words or numbers or just lines, Watson couldn't tell but he was certain that they were meant to be something. 

 _Holmes would be very interested in this.  
_  
But Holmes had refused to accompany him. The man was very serious about his superstitions and would even refuse to go to market on a Sunday, so it was no surprise that he would turn this opportunity down. 

Sighing, the Doctor stood and took one final look at the room around him. It had been an interesting discovery but nothing near what he had expected. However, his curiosity was fed and so, happily full, he left. 

**

Four weeks and three murders later, it became all too apparent that something was wrong. For each reported murder, the mystery solving duo was called to the scene. It was always the same; entrails torn to pieces, hearts removed and partially devoured, skulls smashed and an assortment of other gruesome injuries. However, no matter how they tried no leads could be found.

"It is possible that we are dealing with a stray dog.” Lestrade suggested. 

But Holmes deemed it impossible due to the lack of animal hair present at the scene. The bite marks, upon closer inspection, were almost too human to be canine and not much was eaten; surely a dog would have devoured the whole thing? 

Holmes pulled the doctor away before he could get a sound analysis. 

"Why didn't we stay to accompany the investigation, Holmes?” Watson asked as they strode towards Baker Street.

"No. They are on their own I'm afraid.”

"But it's a perfectly brilliant case! Everything you could ever want, Old cock.”

"There is something not quite right about it, Watson and as perfect as it seems, I do not wish to get involved.” 

"As you wish.” 

As the weeks progressed, more and more strange cases turned up in London, each of which Holmes politely turned down. 

"No, no. I don't deal with anything of this calibre.” He would say.

In all truth, Watson was pleased. He was much too troubled with his own mystery to take on anyone else’s.

It was after the third murder that he realized it. That morning, he had awoken upon the staircase to his rooms, his leg aching due to the position of his body and his clothing covered in dirt and what appeared to be blood. Needless to say, he did not fall asleep like that. 

It continued to happen. He would wake up in the oddest of places, none which being where he had fell asleep. However, one thing stayed constant; the blood on his clothes and the taste in his mouth.


	2. Screaming freedom for some, but others must kneel.

Watson began to keep a journal of events. At first he tried to tell himself it was a coincidence but it soon became much to silly to hope otherwise. The murders were occurring each time he found himself waking in an odd place; covered partially in blood. It only made sense that he had something to do with it. It was much to surreal to even begin to imagine and, even if it were so, what in God's name would possess him to do such a thing? Was it some sort of sleepwalk phenomenon? Pent up rage left over from the war? And how on earth would he, Doctor John Watson, be able to break a human rib cage?

Nonetheless, the facts were there. And he hadn't been the only on to notice. Holmes had been snooping around him lately, questioning him about missing garments or noises in the night.

“You look rather ill, mother hen. Perhaps you should take a break. You seem to be awfully rushed lately.” 

“I assure you Holmes I am right as rain.”

“You have barely eaten. One who barely eats himself notices such things.” 

“I am just slightly under the weather, old cock. Not a worry.”

Holmes pursed his lips, “As you wish.”

If the detective was infamous for anything, it was his breach of privacy. He felt no guilt about picking the lock of his champaign’s bedroom door and even less as he began to sniff the room for any signs of abnormality. 

There were three droplets of blood beneath the bureau however it was obvious that this was due to a cut during the doctor's morning shave. The shoes left neatly beneath the bed had been polished clean that morning, but their soles were still caked with dirt. Upon further inspection the dirt was of north London origin, which was not unusual as Watson often made trips to that specific area. It wasn't until he noticed the balled up shirts behind the headboard that Holmes felt his pulse beat faster. There were approximately seven shirts, all caked in what appeared to be old blood stains, and not just spots, but large, irregular patches. The detective held his breath as his train of thought came to an abrupt halt; seven shirts for seven murders. 

Holmes took the shirts back to his room and hid them in the drawer of his writing desk. It was best not to confront the man just yet ,instead he would act carefully and become more observant. 

“I really must insist you rest for the next few days.” Holmes said over dinner that night.

Watson had barely eaten a thing and, truth be told, he looked ghastly. His skin was much paler than Holmes had ever seen it, his eyes were weary and his limp had become worse.

“You don't look at all like yourself.” He continued, “I really can't let you go on like this.” 

“You are not my doctor, Holmes. I am perfectly fine.”

“Even so. You are not leaving this house until you are back to your fit, fighting self.” 

Watson sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose. 

“Would it matter if I said 'not a chance' ?”

“Not a bit, mother hen. I will pester you until you wish to clock me over the head.”

“Very well.” 

**

The first day Watson accompanied Holmes in his quarters from morning until late that night. He drifted off from time to time, obviously needing the sleep. However, not so much as a whisper was out of place. That night he slept on Holmes' bed, too exhausted to go to his own. Holmes curled up next to him but remained awake until sun up. 

The second day was not quite as boring. Watson began to whisper to himself, the words jumbled and much too fast to understand. His voice was a baritone deeper than his own and, if Holmes was correct, he wasn't even speaking English. The man was dozing in his armchair but his hands were very much awake and were ripping the edges of his news paper before shaping them into little balls. It immediately ceased just as Mrs Hudson entered the room with tea. 

It was on the third day that real problems began to arise. Holmes woke that morning to find the man pacing the floor, only clad in his bed shirt, muttering incoherently to himself and beating his fists against his skull. The detective rushed forward and took hold of both his wrists. 

“Watson!” the man didn't answer, his eyes stared at the wall beyond Holmes, “John!” 

He blinked and shuttered. 

“H-Holmes?” He asked. 

“My God, you're bruising.” Holmes inspected Watson's temples.

“What on earth are you doing to me? Release me at once!” The doctor struggled against Holmes' grip, “ I demand you let me go!” 

“What on earth -? I am stopping you from potentially giving yourself brain damage!” 

“Feda bestia, me vel unhand te necabo!” **[Foul beast, unhand me or I'll rip you apart.]**

Homles' jumped back. The voice was not that of Watson’s, but deeper and distorted. He observed the man before him, nothing had changed; just that voice.

“W-watson, my dear friend, are you alright?” 

“Agnus abest.” he chuckled, “Ducetur in occisionem.”  **[Your lamb is not here, he will be led to slaughter.]**

Holmes watched as Watson collapsed to his knees gasping for breath. He didn't move to help the man, uncertain whether it were him or  _it._

“Holmes?” He coughed, “What is going on?” 

“I should ask you the very same thing.”


	3. & there's a man standing on a top of the hill.

Watson had never seen Holmes this petrified in all the years he had known him. The man was white with fear, his knees pulled in around him and his eyes wide. It would have been comical if not for the circumstances.   
The doctor remained on his knees. He had felt it rise and shove him into the deepest corner of his mind. He had heard the voice echoing throughout his skull and yet he sat paralysed, silently screaming for it to stop. 

“I didn't -” Watson began, but he was at a loss for words. Really, what does one say in this situation?

Holmes' legs shook as he stood. He took hold of the desk for support and lifted the riding crop laying on top of it. 

“Watson, I must insist you sit yourself where I can see you.” The detective said, his voice quivering only slightly, “Please.” 

But Watson didn't move, he couldn't. His entire body ached, even muscles he had forgotten about were filled with an agony unlike anything he had felt. Holmes was speaking again and waving his riding crop around like some sort of circus ring master, but his words were lost on the doctor. 

' _Educ dentibus_ ' **[Break his teeth.]**

“Holmes, please, remain calm.” Watson squeezed his eyes shut, “Just – just calm.” 

The detective took him roughly by the elbow and pushed him into an armchair. Their noses were inches apart.

“You should never have ventured into 221C!” He snapped, “When will you listen to me? When will you learn; my word is gospel!?” 

' _Rinde. Rinde für ihn, hund._ '  **[Bark. Bark for him, dog.]**

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose and bit down on his lip.

“What is this?” He growled.

“Demons. You're crawling with them!” 

“But demons are only silly notions -”

“Then why are you shaking?”

Watson squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel himself being pulled backwards, the weightless feeling of intoxication taking over his limbs and mind. Holmes was still speaking, but his words were only white noise against the high pitched ringing in the doctors ears. 

 _Bite. Bite!_

He felt hands clutching at his shoulders, felt the vibrations as Holmes spoke. He had no control over his body, no matter how he tried. Watson screamed as he was shoved into the deepest corridors of his mind. Internally, he heard maniac laughter and the heavy sound of his beating heart. 

 _Bark for the master.  
Kiss him. Eat him.   
Fuck him._

Watson watched as his own hand reached out to roughly take hold of Holmes' shirt collar. The detective protested but the new found strength in the doctor's body was too much. He was thrown into the writing bureau. A sickening crunch and a screech followed. Then the demon was up and stalking towards his friend, inhuman and incoherent words coming from his throat.

“ _Агнец у вас будет бойня, как ты забиваешь его._ ”  **[Your lamb will slaughter, as you slaughtered him.]**  

“W-watson!” Holmes coughed, “Watson wake up!” 

“ _Не вмешивайтесь._ ” A finger was placed to the doctor's lips, “ _Лягте лев, вы уже мертвы_.” [ **Don't interfere. Quiet lion, you're already dead.]**

Holmes painfully pulled himself away from the desk. Watson begged and screamed for him to run, but his efforts were in vain.

The doctor's body moaned, his head fell backwards and a sickening screech formed deep in his throat. Holmes opened his mouth to scream but the demon was in front of him, hand over his mouth and body pushed hard to the floor. He brought his face within inches of the detectives. 

 _“Cry to mummy, little lion cub, and I'll slaughter her too.”  
_  
Holmes stared up at him with wide eyes. Watson, though encased within himself, could feel the vibrations of his thundering heart. The demon groaned before roughly kissing the detective. He forced his tongue into the man's mouth, he bit at his lip and moved to straddle his waist.

 _“Sour. Like the blood of street whores.”_

“N-nanny will have heard the noise,” Holmes stammered, ignoring the snipe remark, “She'll be here any moment.” 

 _“Mummy knows, mummy knows, mummy with her hands and toes_.” It sang, “ _The woman tried to warn him, she really did. She begged him. But your whore wouldn't listen.”_

Watson's screams fell silent. 

“You're lying.” Holmes spat.

 _“Where is your nanny? If I am lying why is she not here?”_  It cocked his head to the side,  _“ Where’s' your mummy, Mr Holmes?”_  

Holmes struggled beneath him. 

 _“What if mummy's dead? Hm? What if I'm lying and mummy is dead?”_

“Watson! Please God, Watson, wake up!” Holmes cried. 

 _“Níl do uan anseo!”_   **[Your lamb is not here.]**

As the demon stood, it lifted Holmes by the collar. The detective clawed and kicked, he threw his head back and screamed for the land lady but to no avail. Watson thumped at the barriers of his mind. Laughter echoed and voices mocked him in every language imaginable. 

Holmes was violently thrown into a table covered in scientific equipment. It split in two and then glass and various pieces of metal all came crashing down on top of the detective. Through the vicious sound of smashing, Watson could hear Holmes screaming; he cried out in response. 

“Stop this! Leave him be. Please just take me and leave him alone! He didn't mess with you; I did!” 

 _“Your lamb is crying. Begging for me to leave his lion alone.”_  the demon whined, “ _Leave him be, leave him be. It'll do whatever you desire, daddy.”_  he chucked,  _“ Hän haluaa naida sinut. Hän haluaa tehdä sinusta vuotaa verta. Jos voisit nähdä hänen unelmansa, he tekisivät huora punastua.”_   **[He wants to fuck you, he wants to make you bleed. If you could see his dreams; they would make a whore blush.]**

The demon brought his body close to Holmes'. The detective couldn't move, his flesh was cut open, bruised and bleeding; he was completely at the fiend’s mercy. 

 _“Would you let him fuck you?”_ it whispered in the detective’s ear. It reached a hand up under his shirt and roughly took hold of his hips,  _“ Legen Sie sich nicht zu mir!”_   **[Do not lie to me!]**

“Please,” Holmes chocked as the demon clawed roughly at his cock, “Wake up! Watson, wake up!” 

For the first time, Watson felt the demon's strength waver. He pushed harder at the barriers and for a fleeting second he had control, before he was being thrown back more violently than before. A snarl of voices erupted around him and he felt himself growing weaker. He watched helplessly as Holmes begged for mercy; there was blood and screaming and the sickly, wet sound of bones snapping. 

 _“Визг львенка, визг матери и ваши ягненка. Мумия уже мертва, кровь мумии холодно и ее зубы красный; ее улыбка треснула,лев. Ваше драгоценное няня висит на стропила ее кишки.“_ **[Squeal lion cub, squeal for mother and your lamb. Mummy is already dead, mummy's blood is cold and her teeth are red; her smile is cracked, lion. Your precious nanny is hung to the rafters by her guts.]  
**  
The demon ghosted his fingers over Holmes bare chest, he 'tip-toed' the tips along his ribs and , without so much as a moment’s hesitation, slammed his forearms into the fragile bones. There was an ear splitting crunch. Holmes screamed the doctor’s name as his organs were torn apart. 

For Watson, it was the last thing he heard before everything faded to black.


End file.
